


Storm of the Centuries

by DNAchemLia



Category: NCIS
Genre: Gen, Mystery, OC character deaths, Supernatural - Freeform, war related violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-07 03:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3160202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DNAchemLia/pseuds/DNAchemLia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious box of war memorabilia sends Tim McGee on an unexpected trip into the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [McMhuirich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/McMhuirich/gifts).



> 2014 NFA Secret Santa exchange fic for McMhuirich  
> Prompt: Remains discovered in an old building / superstition and/or supernatural / and maybe a snow storm of the century? Or, as it's the 100th anniversary of the Great War... Why not linking the past with the present?  
> Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective copyright holders. No infringement intended. The original characters and places mentioned are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to those living, dead, or undead is completely coincidental.  
> Special thanks to Ceridwen for her assistance with the World War I information for this story. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone.

**_The storm lashes us, out of the confusion of grey and yellow the hail of splinters whips forth the childlike cries of the wounded, and in the night shattered life groans painfully into silence. Our hands are earth, our bodies clay and our eyes pools of rain. We do not know whether we are still alive._ **

~ Erich Maria Remarque, in ' _All Quiet on the Western Front'_

Chapter 1

“I am _so_ not going in there,” Alyssa Maynard declared as she stared at the old house, its broken windows resembling the dead eyes of a long-moldering corpse.

“What’s a matter, baby? Worried about ghosts?”

Alyssa glared at her boyfriend. “No, Taylor, I’m not going in there because it looks like a crack den.”

“We’re in the country. More likely to be a meth lab.” The other boy in the group took a deep sniff. “Doesn’t smell like one, though.”

“How do you know what a meth lab smells like, Donnie?” The fourth member of the group, another teenage girl, asked with genuine curiosity.

“Well, Eva, my cousin lives in Missouri, and when I went to visit he pointed out a few of them. Smelled like—“

“I really don’t care,” Alyssa snapped. “I’m still not going in there. What are we doing here, anyway?”

“Re-enacting the plot of almost every horror movie ever made?” Eva replied with a grin, which earned her a dirty look from the rest of the group.

“It’s an old house. There might be something cool inside,” Donnie offered.

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“Well, we won’t know unless we go look.”

Alyssa looked at the three expectant faces of her friends and sighed. “Fine. But we’re sticking together.”

“Until we make sure it’s safe at least,” Taylor added. “We can always do a little exploring later. On our own.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her and Alyssa just rolled her eyes.

“Dream on, hot shot. Let’s go.”

They carefully approached the house and started searching for a way in. Taylor soon found an unlatched window at ground level that lead into the basement and they squeezed through, one at a time, until all four were standing in a dark, damp space. Donnie scanned the room with his flashlight, revealing a set of rickety-looking wooden stairs leading to the main floor and several piles of broken and tattered furniture in the corners. Otherwise the basement was empty.

“Oh, yeah, this was well worth the trip,” Alyssa muttered as she rolled her eyes. “Can we go now?”

“Maybe there’s something more interesting upstairs?” Eva suggested.

“Like what? More broken-down junk?”

“Don’t be such a killjoy. There’s something in this house worth finding, I’m sure of it. I can just feel it, can’t you?”

“No.” Taylor gave her his best pleading, puppy-dog-eyes expression. “OK, fine.” Alyssa sighed and turned to glare critically at the staircase. “I’m not convinced those will hold someone, though.”

“I’ll go first,” Taylor offered. He started towards the stairs and froze on the second step when the sound of footsteps moving across the floor above reached their ears.

“Who--?” Donnie clamped his hand over Eva’s mouth to silence her.

“Shh…”

The group waited in silence as a second set of footsteps echoed through the house.

“We need to get out of here,” Alyssa whispered, but made no move towards the window. Soon they heard muffled voices from the room above.

“Great,” Eva muttered. “There’s a drug deal or something going on right over our heads.”

“Is that what they’re saying? I can’t tell.” Donnie whispered back. Taylor quietly joined them, a worried look on his face.

“What is it?”

“Some kind of deal. I could hear a little of what they were saying.”

“Now what?”

“Wait until they leave.”

“And if they decide to come down here?”

Suddenly the voices above grew louder, followed by a pair of what sounded like gunshots and a loud crash that shook the floor directly above them. The group froze in place, too terrified to move. More footsteps, followed by a few thumps, and soon the footsteps retreated. The room above was silent as the teenagers waited for the sounds to return. Several minutes passed but the house remained silent.

“We should get out of here. Right now,” Eva whispered. The rest nodded in agreement and started to inch their way towards the window.

Alyssa took two steps before she felt something wet drip on her face. She reached up to wipe it away and saw that her fingertips were dark. Her gaze slowly traveled upwards and she could see the same dark liquid seeping through the floor above. Another drop fell, landing on her forehead and she grabbed Donnie’s flashlight from his grasp as she wiped off the offending drop and brought the light up to illuminate the ceiling. The liquid was dark red.

A split second later, the silence of the house was shattered by a terrified scream.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The cold, cloud-covered sky was just beginning to lighten as Tony pulled the MCRT van to a halt outside the barrier the local police had erected. Tim and Tony climbed out of the van, grabbed their kits from the back and joined Gibbs and Bishop as they approached the officer in charge of the scene.

“Sheriff Deakins?” Gibbs asked the tall, wiry woman dressed in a dark green uniform, who nodded as she eyed the group. “Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS.” He quickly introduced the rest of the team. “You called us in.”

“Yep. Got a phone call about midnight. Bunch of kids think they heard someone being murdered. Checked out the scene, found the dog tags on the deceased, figured this one’s your headache.” Gibbs smiled thinly in response. “Rounded up the kids, they’re back at the station house when you’re ready to talk to ‘em.”

“We’ll head over after we’re done here. What can you tell me?" 

“Not much. House has been deserted for years. Last resident died back in ’08. Been up for sale ever since.”

“Can’t see why someone hasn’t snapped this palace right up,” Tony remarked as he studied the decaying ruin, earning him a glare from Gibbs and a chuckle from the sheriff.

“Anyway, the body’s in the living room. Not much else in there, but I figure that’s up to y’all to figure out. ” Gibbs glanced at Tony and Tim, who nodded in unison, ducked under the barrier tape and headed for the house while Gibbs and Bishop moved off to talk to one of the other officers. Tony paused to glance up at the sky as they reached the front steps.

“Looks like snow. We better get going before we get stuck here.”

“The big storm’s not supposed to move in until tomorrow. We’ve got plenty of time.”

“Whatever you say, McWeatherman. I’d rather not be stuck out in the boondocks any longer than necessary.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

The two men entered the house and surveyed the scene in front of them. The body was in the center of the room, face up, with two dark red holes in its chest and a pool of blood underneath. The dog tags were visible on its chest, clearly having been pulled from the clothing during the sheriff’s examination of the body.

“Ducky’s not going to be happy about that,” Tim muttered and Tony nodded in sympathy.

Further examination the room revealed a duffel bag a few feet from the body. It appeared to be empty.

“So what do you think? Drug deal gone bad? Buyer takes the product and runs?”

“Guess we’ll find out.” They set their kits just inside the room and started to process the scene. Tony took photos while Tim searched through his case for the alternate light source, which he used to scan the bag for prints. After finding none on the handles or interior of the bag, he retrieved a field drug test kit and swabbed the inside and outside of the handles and the inside of the bag before testing the swabs.

“I don’t see any evidence of drugs. Stolen property, maybe?” He had seen a few loose fibers show up under the ALS, but nothing else.

“I guess we’ll have to leave that up to Abby.”

McGee nodded and resumed searching the bag as Ducky and Palmer walked into the house, kits in hand. Ducky knelt down next to the body and began examining it while Palmer helped Tony finish the pictures.

“Cause of death appears to be two close range gunshot wounds.” He nodded at Palmer and the assistant helped him roll the body. “One exit wound.” He retrieved the liver probe from his kit and checked the temperature of the body. “Time of death would have been seven to eight hours ago.”

“Crime was reported around midnight,” Tim repeated the information the sheriff had given them.

“Well, that fits. I think it’s time to confirm his identification, Timothy.”

Tim left the bag for a moment to retrieve the fingerprint scanner, which he carried over to the body and placed one of its fingers on the screen. “Petty Officer Third Class Marcus Edwards. Twenty-four years old, Machinist’s Mate. He’s stationed at Pax River.”

“That matches the dog tags. Well, Petty Officer, let’s see what else you can tell us.” Ducky continued his examination as Tim returned his attention to the bag.  He felt along the inside edges and stopped when he encountered a flat, solid object tucked deep within one of the exterior pockets. He carefully tugged the zipper open and reached in to remove the item: a wooden box, clearly handmade and well worn.

“What ya got there, McGee?”

He held it up for Tony’s inspection and the older man snapped a picture of it before Tim gingerly lifted metal clasp and raised the lid. A puff of dust escaped, causing Tim to sneeze. He shook his head to clear it and examined the contents of the box.

“Looks like old photos… A button, probably from a uniform… A couple of letters.” Tim squinted at the writing. “2 March, 1915. Huh. Looks like it was addressed to a soldier in the first World War.” He studied the top photo in the stack. “A group of men in uniform, probably World War I as well. They look so young,” Tim mused as he checked the other pictures.

Ducky rose to his feet and walked over to see what Tim was examining. “Probably not that young, although this lad…” He pointed to what looked like a teenaged boy standing stiffly next to the oldest man. “He could have been one of those who lied about his age to join up. It was a fairly common occurrence, you must understand. Why, Great Britain alone allowed over 250,000 teenagers to join the ranks.”

“So why would Edwards have this with him?”

“A box of family mementos, perhaps. Other than that I couldn’t venture to guess.”

“I doubt it’s related to our crime,” Tony remarked. “Unless someone would kill for it.”

“Bag it, McGee,” Gibbs ordered as he stepped into the room.

“Yes, Boss. Where’s Ellie?” Tim asked as he slipped the box into an evidence bag.

“Sent her to the sheriff’s office to interview the kids. What else do you got?”

“No sign of drugs, but Abby will have to double check. No signs of a struggle, either, but there’s not much here to go on.”

“Found the second bullet,” Tony called from the wall where he was eyeing a fresh hole in the crumbling plaster. “Looks like he was standing when he was shot.”

“No signs of defensive wounds, and he was shot at close range. I can see evidence of gunshot residue, so no more than two feet away, more likely less than one,” Ducky explained.

“So he knew his attacker…or he was forced here at gunpoint.”

“Maybe the witnesses can help on that score,” Tim added and Tony nodded in agreement.

“Let’s hope so. There’s not much else here.”

“Then it shouldn’t take you much longer to finish.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Gibbs left, presumably to check on Bishop. Ducky and Palmer finished their exam of the body and started to get it ready for transport while Tim and Tony went about completing their respective tasks.

As he worked, Tim’s thoughts would occasionally wander to contemplate the contents of the box he had found, and the fate of the men whose pictures had been included among them.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_The cacophony around him bombarded his senses…the boom of canons, the crack of rifles, the screams of the dead and dying. Smells assaulted him as well… Mud, blood…and death. He could feel the sheets of freezing rain pounding down on his head, dripping down the collar of his shirt as he crouched against the frigid wall of earth, rifle poised, his finger on the trigger. A thunderclap and flash of light above him made him flinch and his mind briefly wondered if it was just the storm…or if death was finally raining down from above…_

Tim awoke with a gasp, his heart pounding. It took him a moment to realize he was at home, in his own bed and he flopped back down with a sigh of relief. He'd never had a dream that vivid before, and hoped he never would again.

After his heart had returned to its normal rhythm he checked his bedside clock and groaned. Gibbs had sent them home at midnight with the order to be back at work by 0700, and Tim would have to hurry to meet that deadline.

He swung his legs off the bed and made it to his feet, swaying a little as he adjusted to the quick change in position. He groaned again as he recognized the unpleasant feeling of lightheadedness, a sign that he might be coming down with something. He dearly hoped it was just a cold, since he doubted he'd be able to take time to recover from something more severe while they were in the middle of a case.

As he stumbled to the bathroom to get ready, he went over the current status of the case in his mind. He had spent the previous day going through Edwards' records, coming up with nothing that would indicate how the young man wound up shot to death in south-central Virginia. He had put in for a warrant for Edwards' personal computers, and hopefully they'd be able to serve that warrant today.

He finished getting ready—at a frustratingly slower pace than he liked-and was on his way out the door when his phone rang.

"McGee."

" _Warrant came through. I'm picking you up."_

"I'll meet you downstairs."

" _Be there in about five minutes."_

"Got it." Tim made it down to the front of his building, annoyed at how tired he was by the effort. He made a mental note to pick up some cold medicine on the way home tonight before he remembered the weather forecast. He made a detour to the parking lot to grab his go-bag from the trunk and returned to the front just as Tony pulled up in one of the sedans.

"Planning on taking a trip, McGee?" Tony asked as he popped the trunk.

"No, I figured we'd be stuck at work tonight. Just being prepared." Tim tossed his bag in the trunk before climbing into the passenger's seat.

"Ah, right. The storm. Better grab some provisions on the way back."

"You and everyone else. You know how crazy the stores get whenever they predict snow."

"One of the joys of living in D.C." Tony muttered as he guided the sedan away from the curb and back towards the highway. "How much are they predicting this time?"

Tim pulled out his phone and checked his weather ap. "Huh. They're calling it the 'storm of the century'. Three fronts converging over the D.C. metro area, at least twenty inches expected by time it moves through, with more in the mountains. Blizzard conditions starting late this afternoon with 25 to 30 mile per hour winds."

"Wonderful. Let's hope we can crack this case before it gets here."

"We can always hope."

"Just wish we knew what Edwards was doing out there in the first place."

"Abby is still working on it. Hopefully she'll have answers on that aspect when we get back. Did you and Gibbs get anything from Edwards' CO?"

"No. No discipline problems, was well liked by his unit, dedicated sailor. Apparently had a family history of service, going back to the Civil War on one side of the family and World War I on the other."

"Explains the box, then. Family heirloom, just like Ducky said."

"Yeah. I'd be curious to know what other heirlooms he had. Maybe that's what the deal was about."

"Are we sure there was a deal?"

"According to the kids Bishop interviewed. They heard two men talking, one said he heard a deal mentioned, but didn't get anything else. Never saw the men, either."

"Great…"

"Warrant covers the wife's computer as well. Maybe we'll find something there."

"Well, we know she's not directly involved. She's been in Michigan visiting her family since the weekend, and is currently snowed in. She was expecting to get back today but her flight was cancelled."

"Sounds convenient. You'd think this close to Christmas she'd go later."

"She's also eight months pregnant. Probably wasn't a good idea for her to wait too much longer to do any traveling."

"Yeah, probably not."

Tony lapsed back into silence, concentrating on navigating through early rush-hour traffic, so Tim leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. His lack of sleep caught up with him and he dozed. Soon the images from the dream returned to him and he groaned as he tried to fend off the nightmare. Suddenly he was awoken by a firm hand on his arm.

"What?"

"You OK?"

"Fine. Sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"Yeah, you don't usually do that in the car."

Tim saw the concern in Tony's eyes was genuine and sighed. "I think I'm coming down with a cold. No big deal. As soon as the case is over I'll take a day off to get over it."

"All the more reason to put this case to bed. Come on, let's go serve a warrant."

The Edwards' lived in a small apartment off-base, with the lease in Mrs. Edwards name. Tony showed their warrant to the building manager, who begrudgingly let them into the apartment, and demanded a receipt for everything to give to Mrs. Edwards when she returned.

After the manager left, Tony and Tim started to search the apartment. Tim was glad to see that the computers (an older-model laptop and a slightly newer desk top model) were off, making it easier to secure them as evidence. He went about his task while Tony checked the other areas. The apartment was small but immaculate, and one of the bedrooms had been transformed into a nursery.

After checking the other bedroom, Tony returned to where Tim was working.

"What's this?"

Tim looked up to examine the object in Tony's hand. "Digital voice recorder. Mrs. Edwards works from home as a medical transcriptionist."

"Bag it?"

"Not on our warrant. Confidential medical files."

"Oh. Think it's important?"

"Doubt it. Find anything interesting?"

"Lots of family history. You weren't kidding about the military thing."

"Anything missing?"

"There's an empty space in the back of the closet, but that might have been for a suitcase."

"Guess we'll have to wait until Mrs. Edwards gets back to find out."

"Yeah. You done?"

"Just about." Tim finished packaging and labeling the computer equipment and Tony helped him carry it out to the sedan. Once they had it secured they climbed into the car and headed back to D.C. Tim leaned back and closed his eyes again, annoyed by how tired he was after so little activity.

"You sure you're OK?"

Tim nodded as he reached up to rub his forehead. He was startled to discover it was quite warm and opened his eyes to examine the sweat on his fingertips. He groaned and reached for his knapsack to retrieve a bottle of Tylenol. He dry-swallowed two and nodded. "I'll be fine. Let's get this stuff back to the yard so I can get working on it. The sooner we can finish…"

"I hear ya." Tony returned his focus to his driving. "This is going to be a fun trip. Wind's starting to pick up."

"Need me to drive?"

"I got it."

Dark, angry clouds were visible on the northwestern horizon, and by the time they had reached the Navy Yard the first flakes were swirling around them. An icy blast hit Tim as he climbed out of the car and he shivered, pulling his coat tighter around him. He wasn't looking forward to the trip home…provided he could even make it home tonight.

It took longer than Tim liked to get everything set up in Abby's lab but finally he was working on the laptop. It appeared to be Edwards' personal computer. He wasn't able to find any work-related material, but was also unable to find any of the usual financial trail from paying bills or making purchases online.

"Any luck?"

Tim looked up to see Gibbs leaning over his shoulder, with Tony and Ellie standing behind him. "No, Boss. Nothing here. I don't think he used it much. I'll start on the wife's computer as soon as I document everything I did with this one."

"Abby?"

"I finally found what I was looking for. Those fibers I found in Edwards' bag weren't in any of my modern databases, so it took some more digging. They're wool, but the dyes haven't been used for almost century. They're from a World War I British army uniform jacket."

"Why would Edwards have a British army uniform?"

"Maybe another memento, Bishop."

"Question is, where is it now? Did he take it to the house where we found him? Or was it just in the bag at some point?"

"We didn't see anything like that at his apartment, Boss."

"Then I guess you need to find it. Bishop, dig deeper into Edwards' background and see what you can find."

"I can't believe someone would have killed him for a uniform. I mean, they can't be worth _that_ much, can they?"

"Guess you better find that out, too. Anything else, Abbs?"

"I found a partial fingerprint on one for the zippers and I'm running it now. Might take a while, since a partial's not as specific and I'll be getting back a lot of hits from IAFIS once the search is done. It's going to take time to sort through them." She glanced over at one of her monitors, which showed the progress of the storm. "But I guess I won't be going anywhere, either. I should have the tox results from Edwards by the end of the day. Maybe this was about drugs after all and the uniform thing is just…hinky."

"Maybe. What about the bullet?"

"Nothing in the database. The gun hasn't been used in a crime before, at least. Not surprising, since it's pretty old, too. Best match I could find based on the rifling characteristics was to a Webley Mk VI, a British revolver used during World War I and up until 1963. He would have to have used handmade ammo. I'm looking for registered owners in the area, but so far no luck."

"Keep checking. I'm going to see Duck. McGee?"

"I'll let you know as soon as I find anything, Boss."

Gibbs gave him a half-smile and left, with Ellie not far behind. Tony paused to study Tim and he sent him an annoyed look.

"What?"

"You're usually a little faster at this stuff. Sure you're OK?"

Tim huffed. "Fine."

"You don't look fine."

Abby walked over to the lab table and leaned down to study him as well. "You know, Tony's right. You don't look so hot, McGee."

"It's just a cold, okay? Now let me get this done so I can go home and get some sleep!"

"O-kay, McCranky. See ya later, Abby." Tony left, and Abby smacked Tim on the arm.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"We're just trying to help, McGee."

Tim sighed. "Yeah, I know." He rubbed his forehead, which still felt too warm to him. "I'll make it up to you later. Both of you, I promise."

"I'll hold you to that," she replied with a grin and returned to her own computer as Tim tried to concentrate on his own work. He dug through layers of data, uncovering some information on the Edwards' payment habits that gave him pause. They weren't in debt, per se, but they were barely living within their means and only making minimal payments each month. The impending arrival of a new family member would definitely be putting a strain on their finances. He started to search for activity that would indicate they were looking for another source income.

"Huh."

"What?"

"Looks like someone was checking out antique auction sites. They never posted anything to sell, but they were definitely checking out the possibility of doing so." A wave of dizziness hit him and he paused to close his eyes and to take a deep breath, waiting until it passed to continue. "I'll check to see if they contacted anyone specifically."

"I still can't believe someone would kill for old war relics. Seems kinda ironic, you know?"

Tim managed a smile. "Yeah, kinda."

Abby walked over to him and checked him over. "You look like crap, McGee. Take a break."

"OK." He rose a bit unsteadily from his chair and headed to the restroom, stopping on the way back to take a long drink from the water fountain. When he returned to the lab he noticed the box he had found was out on the table. He stopped to examine it again, then put on a pair of gloves before he picked it up.

"You mind?"

"Nope, it's been processed. No fingerprints that I could find other than Edwards'."

"What about the contents?"

"Nothing there, either."

Tim opened the box and carefully removed the stack of pictures. He looked at the first one again, the expressions on the subjects' faces catching his attention.

"They look pretty miserable."

"Well, duh. They were in the middle of a war."

"Yeah."

He stared at the group photo and felt a strange wave of déjà vu. A couple of the group seemed oddly familiar, but he wasn't sure why. After a few more moments, he replaced the photos and closed the box before he returned it to the bench top. Peeling off his gloves, he sat back down in front of the computer and started to work again. After a few more minutes, he found something useful.

"Sebastian Grail. Edwards made contact with him a couple of weeks ago, wanting to know about selling some 'memorabilia'. Grail suggested they meet. Doesn't say where. No more emails, though."

"Phone records?"

"Yeah, I better do that up at my desk. I'll see if I can access Grail's business records, too."

"OK. See you later. You know, if you need to sleep, my futon's pretty comfy."

Tim gave her a weak smile. "I'll keep that in mind." He rose and headed for the elevator, but by the time he had reached it he was barely able to stand. He leaned heavily against the wall while he waited for it to arrive and breathed a sigh of relief once it did.

_Just a good night's sleep. That's all I need…_

He stumbled in and hit the button for the squad room floor. As the doors closed, he felt another rush of dizziness. He gripped the railing, waiting once again for it to pass, but instead his knees buckled and the floor rushed up to meet him. He struggled to hang on to consciousness as the world started to spin even faster and finally a wave of darkness crashed over him, pulling him down into unconsciousness.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony leaned back in his chair, stretched his stiffened muscles and turned to glance out the window.

"Wow. It's really getting nasty out there." What little of the sky that was visible was gunmetal grey, but the usual view of the river was obscured by swirling white.

"Vance sent the non-essential personnel home about an hour ago." Ellie frowned, her eyebrows crinkling in puzzlement. "I guess we don't fit that category."

"Vance knows better to interrupt us in the middle of a case, I imagine."

"So…we're stuck here tonight. I'm glad I picked up some emergency supplies."

"Which will last you all of two hours."

She made a face. "I got stuff for everyone, and it should last two days, at least. How long do you think it will take to dig us out this time?"

"Hopefully not too long. How are you doing with Edwards' background?"

"Nothing that raises any red flags so far. He's pretty unremarkable."

"Yeah, until he did something remarkable enough for someone to want to kill him."

"True. How about you? Any luck?"

"No."

"This is going to be a long night…"

"They usually are."

Both returned to their tasks and worked in silence, although Tony kept an eye on the window outside. A few minutes later Gibbs returned and asked for a report. Neither of them had anything to give him and his mood darkened to match the storm outside their windows.

"Where's McGee? He should have something by now."

"Still down in the lab, as far as I know…and I'll go check." Tony headed for the interior elevator, glad for the short reprieve. He pressed the button and the doors opened, revealing a crumpled figure in the corner. It took Tony a moment to realize who he was seeing.

"McGee!" The younger man didn't stir and Tony stepped into the elevator to crouch down next to him, flipping the off switch as he did so. "Come on, man, wake up!" He reached out to shake him, drawing back when he felt the heat radiating off McGee's body.

"Damn it. _BOSS!_ " The sound of running feet reached his ears and Gibbs soon appeared, his expression turning from annoyed to concerned almost instantly as he reached for his phone.

"Duck, we need you. Now." He snapped it shut and crouched down next to Tony. "What happened?"

"No idea, Boss, I just found him like this. He's burning up."

Gibbs patted Tim's face, frowning when he felt the heat rising from his skin. "Come on, McGee, wake up." Tim didn't respond. "Damn it. How did he get like this?"

"I don't know. He wasn't this bad when I left him in the lab."

"'This bad'?"

"He told me he thought he was coming down with a cold. Last I saw him, he wasn't looking great, but he was upright and working. I don't understand how he got this sick so fast."

Gibbs' reply was cut off by the arrival of Ducky, with Ellie close behind.

"What happened?" asked as Ducky shooed Gibbs and Tony out of the elevator and bent down to examine his patient.

"We don't know. What's wrong with him, Duck?"

Ducky was checking Tim's temperature and his eyebrows rose in surprise when he read the result on the thermometer.

"We need to get him cooled down immediately, Jethro. His temperature is 104.9."

"How?"

"We'll take him down to Autopsy, it's cooler down there. Eleanor, go to the lab and get us some ice packs. We'll need them as soon as possible."

"On it." She hurried off as Tony and Gibbs joined Ducky in the elevator. Gibbs flipped the switch and the doors closed. Soon they reached the basement and Ducky turned to Tony.

"Anthony, go fetch one of the gurneys from the van. It will be more comfortable for Timothy than one of the tables."

"Less creepy, too." Tony hurried out to the garage where the van was parked and wrestled one of the gurneys up onto the loading dock. He finally managed to get it through the doors and into autopsy, then through the second set to the elevator. Ducky lowered it so it was near ground level and then Tony and Gibbs gently loaded Tim onto it. He never moved or made a sound.

Once they had the gurney up again and rolled into Autopsy, Ducky retrieved his bag and started a more thorough examination.

"His temperature has gone up a tenth of a degree already. We need to move quickly. Anthony, go get a clean basin and fill it with cool water, and fetch some towels as well."

"You got it." He paused to look around. "Where's Palmer?"

"I sent Mr. Palmer home several hours ago, ahead of the inclement weather. I thought it best that he stayed with Breena during the storm."

"Right, OK." He searched the storage cabinets for an appropriate vessel and by the time he had returned Ducky and Gibbs had Tim stripped down to his underwear. Gibbs sent him a look that clearly said this incident was off-limits for any potential teasing and Tony nodded in understanding. He was too worried about Tim now to even consider it.

Ducky took one of the towels, soaked it in the basin, and started to wipe Tim's face and forehead with it. "Where is Eleanor with that ice?"

"Here," she answered as she rushed into the room, Abby following close behind.

"Oh my God, what happened?"

"Timothy has a very high fever and we need to get it down as fast as possible." Abby took over wiping Tim's face while Ducky took one of the ice packs, wrapped in in a wet towel and placed it under Tim's neck. He repeated the process of wrapping two more packs and placed one in each of Tim's armpits. More packs went on the inside of his elbows, on his wrists, behind his knees, and the last on his groin, which caused Tony to wince.

"When those get warm, replace the towel with a cold one."

"And that will help? Does he need to go to the hospital?"

"As long as the fever doesn't get worse, and starts to go down within thirty minutes, I believe we can treat him here. I doubt an ambulance would be able to reach us tonight, and we're certainly not going anywhere." He grabbed a sheet from one of the cabinets and carefully draped it over Tim.

"So if we get the fever down, he'll wake up?"

"Most likely. What symptoms was he showing before this happened?"

"Nothing, really." Abby paused in her ministrations, clearly trying to remember any warning signs. "He was slower than usual, and pretty pale, but… Why didn't he say something?"

"Habit, I imagine." Ducky checked Tim's temperature again. "Well, it hasn't increased. That's a positive sign." He patted Tim's cheek. "Timothy, can you hear me? Wake up, lad." Tim remained silent and Ducky sighed. He checked Tim's pupils before carefully palpating his neck and head.

"Ah. This could be the culprit. A small laceration, with swelling, on the back of his head. He must have hit it when he fell. I imagine he'll have quite the headache when he awakens." Ducky then checked his breathing and paused, a worried look crossing his face.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm hearing some congestion. Let's raise him up a bit. That should help."

"What could cause that?"

"Any number of things, but considering the high fever we should be concerned. I'll draw some blood for testing to see if we can narrow this down."

"Is he going to be OK?"

"I believe so, but I'll keep a close eye on him, Jethro. The rest of you should get some sleep, if you can."

"I'll stay. I don't have anything in the lab the needs me right away, and…"

"Alright, Abigail."

"Come on, the rest of us still have a case to solve." Gibbs turned to Abby. "Did McGee find anything before…?"

"He mentioned finding emails from someone named Sebastian Grail, who apparently deals in antiques."

"I'll see if I can pick up where Tim left off," Ellie offered.

"Good. Go." She scurried off as Gibbs bent down and whispered in Tim's ear. "Get better, Tim. You don't have permission to do otherwise. Clear?" Tim didn't stir as Gibbs placed a gentle hand on his forehead. After a few moments, Gibbs turned and headed for the elevator.

Tony took one last look at his partner before following, hoping that they next time he made it down to check on Tim he'd be awake and aware.

XXX

Tim opened his eyes and blinked, puzzlement crossing his face as the area around him came into focus.

_Where am I?_

He blinked again but the scene didn't change. He was in some sort of tent, its dull khaki walls billowing slightly as a cold wind blew through the gaps in the corners. Tim tried to sit up but his body didn't seem to want to cooperate and he groaned as the pain in his head flared, causing him to wince.

"Hey, look who's finally awake."

Tim turned towards the voice and saw a young man, probably in his late teens or early twenties, sitting on a bunk a few feet away and grinning at him. The man was dressed in a collared tan shirt and dark khaki trousers, with the bottom half of the legs covered by some sort of wrap. The man's face bore a few days' worth of bristles, and his bright blue eyes twinkled below a thatch of decidedly unkempt sandy-blond hair. He was vaguely familiar, but Tim couldn't immediately place him.

"Who…are you?"

The grin vanished. "You musta took more of a knock to the head than we thought." He waited, and when Tim failed to respond he frowned. "It's me, your ol' mate Tommy Brannigan. Remember?"

"Oh, uh…OK. Right."

"Do you remember who _you_ are?"

"I'm…not sure."

"Oi. Your melon's really been scrambled."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Timothy Harris. Sound familiar?"

"Uh…sure."

'Tommy' grinned. "Timmy and Tommy, the boys from Telford." The grin faded. "We're all that's left of the old gang. Rest have gone west." He paused a moment to study Tim. "You really don't remember?"

"I'm sure it will come back to me," his mind still trying to process what he was seeing and hearing, including the fact that his voice didn't sound like his own at all.

Tommy chuckled. "Might be better if it didn't."

"So, uh, where are we?"

"Hell."

"W-what?"

"You know, like that American bloke said, 'War is Hell'."

"Sherman?"

"You remember that but no your own name?"

"I guess not. But…War?"

"Yup. Against the Huns. Kitchener's Army."

"Kitchener…World War _I_?"

A puzzled expression crossed Tommy's face. "What do you mean, one?"

"Uh, never mind." _This is a dream. It has to be…_ "So, uh, what are we doing…now?"

Tommy let out a soft snort of laughter. " _You_ are getting your head on straight. If you're lucky, maybe they'll decide you've got shell shock and leave you here."

"And if I'm not lucky?"

"Back to the trenches."

"Great…"

"Or they'll think you're shirking and shoot you."

Tim shuddered. He vaguely remembered from history class what happened to deserters or enlisted men deemed 'cowardly' by the officers in command.

"I'm not…shirking."

"Good, then get dressed." Tommy handed Tim a bundle of clothes. "Don't take too long. The Captain wants the lot of us ready for drills by sunup."

"OK."

Tommy tilted his head and studied Tim. "Something's not right with you, and not just a bump on the head."

"You have no idea," Tim muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. I'll…be ready in a few."

"Alright." Tommy pulled on his coat and cap and headed out of the tent, leaving Tim with an unfamiliar pile of clothing and too many questions for which there were no answers in sight.


	4. Chapter 4

The next thing Tim knew he was standing outside, watching a large group of men in uniforms like the one Tommy had worn (and Tim himself was now wearing) gather in a flat open area about 500 yards from where Tim stood. He started walking towards the group but was stopped by a man with a red cover on his cap.

"Harris. You've recovered?"

"Yes. Yes, sir."

"Good. Wouldn't want someone to think you're a coward, now would you?"

"No, sir." The man nodded curtly and strode towards the group of men. Tim let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, collected himself and followed the man in the red cap.

When he reached the area where the men were gathered he stopped, wondering what he was supposed to do.

"Oi! Harris!" He turned and saw a closely clustered, smaller group of men, with one motioning for him to join them. He walked over and then man who had called him, a gangly red-head with an abundance of freckles and wide green eyes looked him over.

"Brannigan said you were addled. Looks like he was right."

"Sorry. Guess I'm…not quite myself today."

"That could be a good thing," another man laughed as he shoved a lock of black hair under his cap, his deep brown eyes twinkling. Suddenly, Tim realized where he had seen these men: they were all from one of the photographs he had seen in Edwards' box.

"What did Lt. Holy want with you?" a third man asked.

"Lt. Holy…?"

"Grail, the MP that was talking to you before you came over. What did he want?"

"Uh…he was…making sure I was fit for duty, I guess."

"Are you?"

"I… As I'll ever be."

"Then where's your rifle?"

"Here," Tommy replied as he joined the group, a little breathless and carrying two rifles, one of which he handed to Tim. "All ready to go." Tim silently took the rifle and examined it, wondering if he'd actually have to use it before this whole weird dream ended.

"Look sharp," Tommy muttered and nodded towards an older man that was approaching with a much younger man following behind. Tim recognized them both from the photo, and the boy looked even younger in person. He was the one Ducky had suspected was far too young to enlist.

The men with Tim quickly formed a line as the older man (Tim recognized the bearing of an officer, so he was likely the lieutenant in charge of this particular unit) stopped in front of them. He began giving orders and Tim did his best to follow along, amazed at the vividness of the dream he was experiencing, and wondering one thing in particular.

_Why am I not waking up?_

XXX

Gibbs walked into Autopsy to check on Tim, expecting to find his agent awake, embarrassed, and apologetic but instead found Ducky setting up the portable x-ray over the chest of the still unconscious man.

"What's going on, Duck?"

The expression on Ducky's face when he turned to Gibbs sent a twist of worry through Gibbs' gut. "I'm afraid Timothy hasn't regained consciousness, and the congestion is sounding worse. I suspect pneumonia may be setting in, or it could be something even more dire."

"What do you mean?"

"I sent samples up to Abigail for a tox screen, in addition to the tests for bacterial and viral markers."

"You think he was poisoned?"

"I can't rule it out." Ducky finished setting up the machine and draped a lead apron over Tim's lower half. "If he was administered some sort of toxin, hopefully the test will narrow down the time of exposure." He shooed Gibbs from the room and the lead agent waited while Ducky took a series of x-rays. When he had finished and started the developing process, Gibbs returned to Tim's side to study the younger man. Tim's hair was soaked with sweat and Gibbs noticed that Ducky had inserted an I.V. into his right arm.

"That didn't wake him up?" Gibbs asked when Ducky returned, pointing to the I.V. in Tim's arm.

"Unfortunately, no, and by now he should be conscious. His pupils are even and react to light, but I can find no other signs of awareness. The fever is dehydrating him so the I.V. was a necessity."

"Is the fever going down at all?"

"A couple of degrees, out of the danger range but still too high." Ducky checked Tim over once again and sighed. "I'm worried, Jethro. I have no idea what could cause this. He _should_ be awake, but he is not."

"Does he need a hospital? If we need to get him there, I can call in some favors…"

"I wouldn't want to risk moving him until we know what's causing this. He's stable, at least, but that may change if we try to take him out of here. All we can do is wait." Gibbs let out a growl of frustration and Ducky's eyebrows rose in surprise. "What is it?"

"Waiting. Hate it." Gibbs reached out and wiped a sweat-soaked strand of hair from Tim's forehead. "We've got a suspect, a good one. Bishop found the information McGee uncovered from Edwards' computer, and we've placed Grail in the area at the time of the murder, but…we've got no way to get to him."

"Well, look on the bright side, Jethro. It's unlikely he will be going anywhere, either. You really should get some sleep. I don't need another patient in here so soon."

Gibbs nodded reluctantly. "Let me know if anything changes with McGee."

"You'll be the first to know."

Gibbs nodded and left, hoping that at least _something_ would get better, and soon.

XXX

Tim flopped onto his bed, exhausted. He could hear his companions, the men in his unit, joking with one another and hitting their own beds with similar enthusiasm, but he couldn't manage to open his eyes enough to see if they had all entered the barracks. He had names to go with some of the other faces he had seen before in a faded photograph: Carey Finch, a short, stocky, hazel-eyed and brown haired youth from Guilford with a quick grin that reminded him strongly of Tony; Nathan Ames, also from Guilford who could have passed for Carey's brother; David White, a thin, pale young man with black hair and light grey eyes who hailed from Stratford on Avon and his cousin Dennis, of similar complexion but with eyes a few shades darker than David; Bradley MacKenzie, the red-head that had called out to him on the training field, who had been a fisherman in Portsmouth before joining the Army; and Willie Mann, with mousy brown hair and brown eyes, who had no-doubt been a school-boy in Derby before he had made the trip to the recruitment center five months prior.

Several of the faces Tim had seen in the picture were absent, although he gathered they had been among the first casualties in this unit during their first trip to the front. The oldest man in the picture, Lieutenant Edmund Richards, who was probably younger than Tim when he started at NCIS, reminded him a lot of his college roommate, serious, but with a well hidden sense of humor that would only emerge infrequently and was hard to recognize if one wasn't paying attention. One thing Tim had observed was that the Lieutenant, while not much older than the men under his command, had taken responsibility for them and trained them well. Tim had been surprised that he – or the person he was in this 'verse', knew the drills just as well as the other men and could perform them efficiently. It occurred to him, more than once, that all of this had to be the result of his own imagination, but it felt so real that he found himself accepting all he observed as fact. If nothing else, it would make an interesting story to tell when he woke up.

_If_ he woke up.

This situation… _dream_ … was unlike Tim had ever encountered before: the sights, the smells, the sounds, everything felt so _real_. It was like the nightmare he had recently experienced, magnified ten-fold. He wondered what could have caused such a vivid hallucination—which it had to be, since he was fairly sure he hadn't made a trip aboard the TARDIS—and what kind of condition he would be in when he finally regained consciousness.

Tim felt something nudge his arm and he opened his eyes, hoping to find himself back at NCIS, only to find Tommy standing over him with a rather battered deck of cards in one hand.

"Join in?"

"I don't think so."

"Hey, enjoy it while you can. Back to the trenches tomorrow."

"Oh. OK, I guess it won't hurt." He levered himself off the bed and joined the group of men gathered around the makeshift table. Tommy dealt out the cards and as the game progressed, Tim began to feel oddly at home with this group, like he somehow did belong here, in this time and place.

The next morning arrived way too quickly and soon the unit was on the march. Weighed down under sixty pounds of gear, Tim feared he wouldn't make it very far and would once again fall under the scrutiny of 'his holiness', Lt. Grail (Tim's companions had related several horror stories of the MP's hatred for any behavior deemed 'cowardly'). To his surprise, he was able to get used to the load fairly quickly and kept up with his platoon as they approached the front lines.

Tim had seen pictures of the trenches in his history books, and had been forced to watch a few 'war movies' with Tony, but nothing had prepared him for this. Before him was a strange maze of open tunnels, fortified with sandbags and planks, topped with gun turrets and bordered by curls of barbed wire. The surrounding vegetation had been laid to waste by enemy fire, and in the desolate space known as 'No Man's Land' between the trench networks, battered fences and curls of razor wire littered a landscape pockmarked with craters from artillery shells and collapsed, shallow graves.

The sight, however, was nothing compared to the stench. Rotting food, sewage, and decomposing corpses contributed their odors to create a miasma of foulness, the likes of which Tim had never experienced in years of dealing with dead bodies. He barely managed to keep from gagging as the wind shifted and wafted the malodorous clouds towards his unit.

"Home, sweet home," quipped Tommy, who was marching to Tim's right.

"If your home smells like that, you should burn the damn thing down," Nathan replied with a strangled laugh.

Tim said nothing as the group descended into the first network of trenches. They had just reached the bottom when a loud retort shook the ground around them.

"Welcoming party," David shouted and the group ducked down and crouched against the crumbling mud walls of the trench. The sound of shells hitting the tops of the trenches around them was deafening, but thankfully over quickly. Tim's ears were still ringing as he checked the area around him for damage. Much to his surprise, all of his companions were still alive.

"Get to work," Lt. Richardson ordered and the platoon began repairing the damage. By the time they had finished, the sun was setting and several members of the group had moved off for sentry duty.

"You ever wonder why we decided to do this?" Tommy asked Tim as he dropped down beside him and leaned against the wall.

"I'm going to guess someone wanted adventure," Tim remarked, drily.

"Yep. What were we thinking?"

"Stop the bloody Kaiser, that's what we wanted to do. 'It will be over by Christmas', they said. Ha!" Dennis chortled, his voice laced with derision. "It bloody well better be over by next Christmas."

Tim didn't have the heart to tell them it wouldn't.


	5. Chapter 5

" _Stand to!"_

Tim jerked awake, suddenly aware that the men around him were grabbing their guns and apparently preparing for an attack. Tim stumbled to his feet (which were cold, wet, and tight in his boots) and assumed the defense position without even thinking about it.

It was getting harder and harder for Tim to remember that all this was just a dream.

The sky was just beginning to lighten to the grey-pink of dawn and the area around him was eerily quiet, save for the sound of the other men breathing. They waited but nothing happened, and eventually the Lieutenant gave the order to stand down, allowing the men to commence with their morning chores.

Soon the sentries returned from duty and their relief headed out on watch. Tim hadn't been assigned to that job, so he joined the others in getting breakfast-the smell of which nearly turned his stomach—and doing the numerous small repairs and major improvement to the trench network that necessity required.

A few hours seemed to pass, and Tim found himself working next to Willie, who had returned from sentry duty but hadn't yet taken advantage of his allotted down time. Tim noticed a strange expression on the boy's face, a mix of fear and almost of resignation.

"What's wrong, Willie?"

Willie eyed him suspiciously, and Tim wondered if the young man had undergone hazing in the past from his older compatriots.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Just curious, I suppose."

The fear grew more obvious. "You'll laugh."

"I won't, I promise."

Willie glanced around, checking to make sure no one was listening, and turned to Tim, his eyes wide.

"You've heard to stories? About No Man's Land?"

"Maybe. What have you heard?"

"They say there's…people that live out there. In the holes and old trenches. They don't belong to either side…and they take whatever they need to survive. I always thought that was bad…but there's worse things out there. I saw them."

"What worse things?"

Willie shivered. "Ghosts."

"No such thing as ghosts, Willie," Tommy remarked as he joined them and clapped the boy on the shoulder. Willie immediately lapsed into an embarrassed silence and Tim shot Tommy a dirty look.

"You probably just saw…the enemy out sneaking around. Nothing hinky about that."

"'Hinky'?" Tommy stared at Tim, clearly thinking his friend had lost it.

"Uh, yeah. You know, strange."

"Right…"

"It wasn't the enemy," Willie replied, softly, with a hint of tears in his voice.

"How do you know that?"

"Because…it was Ricky…my brother. I saw him last night, out _there_."

The humor vanished from Tommy's expression. "Willie, your brother…"

"Copped it. I _know_ that!" Willie was now nearly crying. "And I think that means I'll be joining him!"

Tommy sent Tim a ' _OK, what do we do now?_ ' look and Tim sighed. He knew the reality was that any of them could be joining those who had 'gone west' at any moment. He wished he could tell the kid otherwise, but no words of comfort were coming to mind.

"Willie, you don't know that. The war could end tomorrow, and we could all be going home. Nothing's set in stone. OK?" Tim's eyebrows rose in surprise at the sincerity of Tommy's tone, quite different for the man who seemed to think everything was a joke.

"Really?"

Tommy gave the boy an affectionate cuff on the head. "Yeah, now get back to work before Holy comes nosing around."

A very un-manly giggle escaped the boy and he headed off down the trench, soon disappearing from sight.

"Damn kid doesn't belong here," Tommy muttered before turning to Tim. "' _Hinky_ '?"

Tim managed a chuckle. "It's a long story."

"Can't wait to hear it."

Before Tim could respond a loud explosion shook the ground around them, throwing Tim to the bottom of the trench. He lay on the mud-soaked duckboards, stunned and unmoving, as more shells hit around him. Suddenly he felt someone grab his arm and drag him along the bottom of the trench, away from the line of fire. Finally he managed to move on his own, only to be thrown to the ground again by the force of another explosion.

After what seemed like hours, but was in reality only a few minutes, silence returned. Tim cautiously raised his head and looked around, surprised and relieved that both he and Tommy appeared to be in one piece. Tommy was still gripping his arm.

"You alright?" Tim asked and held his breath as he waited for an answer.

"I'll live…this time," Tommy replied, not even opening his eyes.

"Thanks."

"For?"

"Pulling me out of the way. I think you just saved my life."

"I'll let you return the favor someday."

Tim helped Tommy to his feet and looked around, surveying the damage.

"Damn. I just fixed that," Tommy muttered as they examined one of the damaged gun turrets.

"Sorry." Tim noticed Carey sitting on one of the sandbag piles a few yards away. "Hey, Carey, are you alright?" Carey ignored them, staring at something in the distance.

"Oi, Finch! What's your problem?" Carey still didn't reply so Tommy headed towards him. "Finch?" Tommy grabbed Carey's shoulder and he slowly toppled over, revealing the fact that half of his head was missing.

"Oh, God," Tommy groaned and managed to take a few steps away before emptying the contents of his stomach. Tim groaned as well, but managed to keep down his breakfast.

"You OK?"

Tommy stood and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "No. Damn it." He sighed. "We better check on the others. Come on."

They continued moving down the trench, coming across several more bodies, members of another platoon. They turned the last corner and froze, slowly taking in the sight of what remained of their own platoon's youngest member.

Tommy swore and turned away, banging his fist against one of the trench walls as Tim closed his eyes, desperately wishing that he would soon awaken from this nightmare.

XXX

Tony checked the lab, found it deserted, and headed for Autopsy. He'd managed to get a few hours of sleep, only to find that the storm was still raging outside with no signs of letting up anywhere in the near future and had decided to check on Abby and then McGee.

Tony had noticed that Gibbs was worried, or as worried as he ever showed, when he had returned from checking on Tim. When Tony had asked, all he had said was Ducky was checking into what was wrong, and that it was time to get some sleep. Ellie was already sacked out at her desk, so he had leaned back in his chair and tried to catch forty winks, or at least enough to function again at a reasonable level.

When he arrived in Autopsy he was surprised to find Tim still unconscious, with Abby tending to him. She was in the midst of changing the ice-pack towels when Tony walked in, evidence that Tim's fever still hadn't broken.

"How's he doing?"

Abby turned to him, her eyes red. "His temperature is down to 102.3, but that's still kind of high." She replaced the last pack and started to wipe his face with another cool, damp towel.

"At least it's going down, right?" He noticed her hand was shaking. "Abby, have you gotten any sleep?"

"No, I can't. I had to run tests for Ducky, and someone needs tome take care of Timmy because Ducky needs to sleep, and—"

"Abby! What kind of tests?"

"Tox screen, Ducky thought McGee might have been poisoned, but the first tests didn't show anything, so I'm running more, and—"

"What do you mean, Ducky thought McGee was poisoned? Why?"

"Because he hasn't woken up, and he should have by now, but we can't find any other reason why he hasn't." She re-wet the towel and started wiping down his arms. "I can't figure out why he's so sick and I can't help him."

Tony took the towel from her hand and guided her to a chair. "You need to rest, Abby. I'll take care of McGee for awhile. Go on, your futon is calling you."

"But—"

"Go. You can't help Tim if you're exhausted, and you are."

"But I… You're right. But you better keep a close eye on him, Tony. Check his temperature every half an hour, and if it doesn't go down, or starts going back up—"

"I'll call Ducky. Get some sleep."

She leaned down to kiss Tim's forehead and whispered something in his ear, lingering a moment before she turned and headed out. Tony soaked the cloth in the basin, wrung it out, and started wiping Tim's arms as he had seen Abby do.

"You know, McGee, you've got to have the worst timing. I mean, really? Getting mysteriously sick in the middle of a freaking snow storm? That just takes the cake." He paused to wipe a trickle of sweat from Tim's forehead. "And when you do wake up? You're getting head-slapped into the middle of next week for worrying me…I mean, worrying Abby like this. And then you're getting another one for laying down on the job. I mean, yeah, Bishop found the guy, but she still doesn't have your…gut for figuring out where to look and what we need to find. If you'd been in top form, we'd have found the guy before this damn storm hit. And then we wouldn't be stuck here at all, right? So, new rule: no getting sick on my watch, and if you do, warn us, OK?" He stopped to study his partner, not liking the pale shade of Tim's skin, the dark circles under his eyes, or the way his breath rattled slightly when he drew in a breath. "Better yet, go back to the first part: don't get sick in the first place."

Tony re-wetted the cloth and started on the other arm. "So, the case. The guy you found, turns out he used to be a curator for the Smithsonian. They let him go about two years ago, something about conflict of interest, or at least that's what they only person I could find that knew anything about it would say. Expert in World War I British military…stuff. Has connections all over for finding and restoring artifacts from every battle the British army fought, and some they didn't. Big name in the antique trade, too. Seems like he made a lot of money doing just that. Still, I can't get a grip on why he'd kill Edwards. Anything you'd like to add?"

Tim remained silent, except for his breathing, which seemed to get a little rougher. Tony debated calling Ducky, just in case, but finally decided to wait until it was time for a temperature check to see if there was another reason to disturb Ducky's sleep.

"Well, OK then. So, still trying to figure it out. I mean, Abby gave us her best guess on why type of uniform Edwards had, and Bishop looked up the going rate, and…I mean, it's really not worth that much money. Not worth killing over, I'd imagine. Of course, Edwards could have had something else in that bag worth a lot more, but… Oh, hell, I don't know. The worst part is we can't ask the guy, because calling him would tip him off, and we can't exactly go get him now. We're just sitting around. Well, in your case, lying around."

No response.

"Damn it, Tim, why won't you wake up? What's going on in there that even Abby can't figure out? Did someone do this to you?"

Tim remained silent and unaware. Tony went back to trying to cool Tim down while keeping up a line of chatter, hoping that if nothing else it would convince Tim to wake up, just to shut his partner up.

Tony never noticed the single tear that slipped down Tim's cheek.


	6. Chapter 6

The mood in the trenches was solemn that night. Twenty men had been killed in the shelling attack, including three total from Tim's platoon (Walter Cline, who had only joined the group a couple of weeks ago and was on his first tour, was found mere feet from Willie, a look of complete surprise on his young, thin face). Even, Lt. Richardson, who had normally remained unfazed by most of the mayhem around him, had looked troubled, and had retreated to a quiet area of the encampment to pen a condolence letter to each of the families of the men who had been lost.

As the sun rose the next day, British snipers exacted some revenge, taking out at least five of the enemy, and at dusk a barrage of shells finished off an undetermined number of others. Several more exchanges of fire occurred, but the platoon's luck seemed to hold and no more of its members were lost before their time in the front line passed and they moved to the support line trench, further from the enemy, but still in the line of fire.

Finally they were sent back to base camp, and that night the platoon gathered to pay respects to their fallen. Their rations of rum were poured, and the group drank a toast to the three men who didn't make it back for 'rest'.

"To Willie, Carey, and Walter," David intoned. "Lucky bastards, the lot of them."

"Lucky? They're _dead._ " Tim could tell that Nathan was barely keeping his anger in check.

"Yeah, and they're out of here. The front's a fate worse than death, _that_ you may tie to."

"Maybe. Or maybe they lost their chance to see their families, or victory, or…to grow up."

"They knew what they were getting into. They came anyway."

"Did they?" Tim asked, unable to keep silent any longer. "Did any of you?"

"Hell, no," Bradley muttered. "But it's too late now. We're here, to the bitter bloody end. Bloody, that's the rub, that is."

"How long? Until the end? How long do we sit in mud and crap and rotting bodies until someone says enough?" Nathan demanded.

"Until we beat the Kaiser's arse all the way back to Berlin."

"I don't see him out here. Do you?"

"Nope. Just his armies. Don't even see them half the time, the bloody cowards."

Tim noticed Lt. Holy walking by their group, slowly, clearly listening to their conversation. He wondered if the stories were true, that Grail was looking for an excuse to find men guilty of desertion and treason. He decided he didn't want to take a chance.

"But we'll do what we're told, because it's the right thing to do, right?" Tim answered loudly, tilting his head slightly towards where Grail was when his companions sent him a strange look. They all nodded in understanding and moved on to safer topics. Finally Grail moved on and Tim sighed in relief.

"What is his issue? Only MP I've ever seen that goes looking for trouble."

"I heard he's from royalty, but way too far down the line to ever have a chance of getting the throne," Bradley replied in a low voice. "He still 'God and Country', though, and wants to make sure everyone knows that."

"Gives me the willies," Dennis declared. "I'm hoping for the day he meets a whiz-bang with his name on it."

"Wishing death on others is bad luck, mate," Tommy replied. "Just keep your nose clean and wait it out. Hope he's transferred before he finds that traitor he's been looking for since he got here."

"Amen to that." Nathan tossed back the rest of his drink. "Now let's hit the rack. Feels like I haven't slept in days."

"You haven't."

Nathan gave Dennis a light punch to the arm and the rose from their seats, swaying slightly as they headed back to the barracks, followed by all except Tim and Tommy.

"You alright?"

"I'm alive. It's something."

"I understand that."

"Wondering how long I'll stay that way. Little more serious now, got something to really live for."

Tim's eyebrows rose in surprise. "What do you mean?"

Tommy pulled a folded piece of paper out of his coat. "Was waiting for me when I got back. It's from the Missus." He handed the paper to Tim, who unfolded it and started to read, a smile spreading across his face as he deciphered the handwriting. "Congratulations!"

"Thanks. Can't hardly believe it: me, a dad."

"You'll be great at it." Tim's smile faded. "You were good with Willie."

"Yeah, well, that was different. I'm not even sure I'll get to know my own kid, though. Odds aren't good."

Tim sighed. "Could be worse."

"How?"

"You could be in the German army."

Tommy grinned. "That's the truth, isn't it. Come on, I need sleep in the worst way."

"You and me both, Tommy."

They returned to the barracks and Tim watched as Tommy placed the letter, almost reverently, in a wooden box he had hidden in his bag. Tim recognized that box and wondered, just for a moment, if he would ever discover how it had wound up at a crime scene one hundred years later.

When the trumpet sounded Reveille the next morning Tim barely paused to question why he still hadn't awakened from this strange dream. He was too focused on what Tommy had told him the previous evening, and wondered if there was a way to make sure then man was sent home in one piece.

When they arrived on the field, Lt. Grail was arguing with Lt. Richardson, who cut off the argument as soon as the platoon approached.

"Not one of my men is a deserter nor a traitor, Lt. Grail. I'd stake my life on that."

"You better hope you don't have to," Grail snapped and turned to Tim. "Tell me you weren't wishing to join the enemy's army, just last night."

Tim stared at the man, anger and amusement warring with each other as he struggled to keep his tongue in check.

"No, sir, I was not. I said it would be worse to be in the German army. Their casualty rate is much higher."

"And how do you know that?" Grail sneered.

"Because they're fighting us, sir."

Grail turned bright red as the rest of the men stifled their laughter.

"As I said, Lt. Grail, my men clearly love their country. Your concerns are unfounded." Lt. Richardson's lips twitched as he stared the other man down.

"We'll see." Grail turned and stomped off, and Richardson turned to his men.

"See that you don't give him reason to doubt my word. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Weapons drill. Go."

Tim quickly fell in to the routine, but he couldn't suppress the nagging thought in his mind that he had just dodged a bullet…in more ways than one.

The rest period of the team's rotation pass far too quickly and soon they were marching back towards the front lines. Their arrival was met with more sniper fire and shelling, and once again they managed to escape unscathed.

Time in the trenches passed slowly, and when the guns and canons were silent, boredom prompted the creation of many a new pastime. 'Trench rabbit' hunts were widespread, and Tim's sympathy for the vermin they targeted was almost nil. He had seen the rats that infested the passageways feasting on corpses of the unfortunate victims left in No Man's Land, a sight that sickened him almost as much at the 'chats' the men engaged in to remove the pests that invaded their clothing, hair, and skin. Tim was spared from the 'trench fever' that infected several of the men from other platoons, but he still had to deal with the carriers of that disease-the lice-himself. Many of his companions shaved their heads to make such a chore easier but Tim resisted, for the time being at least.

Another cycle of time in the fire trench, followed by support and then rest passed, and on the third trip back to the front several members of the platoon got their wish: Lt. Grail was knocked from his horse by sniper fire. He survived, but was sent home, much to the relief of the entire regiment.

The third night in the trench, Tim noticed that Tommy was being unusually quiet. He had been on sentry duty the night before, something he usually seemed to take in stride, but this time…

"Something bothering you?" Tommy glanced up at him, worry clearly etched on his face, and Tim saw that he was holding a piece of paper. "Bad news from home?"

"No," he replied, softly. "But I think home is going to get bad news."

"What do you mean?"

"You remember the day Willie died? He was talking about seeing ghosts out in No Man's Land?"

"Yeah?"

Tommy chuckled softly. "I don't think he was imagining things."

"What are you talking about?"

"You remember Alec and Stephen? From the old neighborhood? Joined the BEF back in August, went to the front in October. Never made it home." Tim nodded, although he had no memory of the men, he knew Timothy Harris should. "Was on duty last night, 'round midnight, saw both of them. Just standing out in the middle of No Man's, smiling, waving at me to follow them."

"It was just a dream, Tommy. You dozed off."

"I was wide awake. Trust me, you don't sleep on sentry duty. It was them. It was a warning." He met Tim's gaze. "I'm not going to make it home, Tim."

"Don't say that. You will."

Tommy sighed. "Promise me you'll look after Amy…and the little one."

"You can look after them yourself, when you get home."

Tommy stood and put his hands on Tim's shoulders while looking him straight in the eye. "Promise me, Tim. Please."

"I…"Suddenly the weight of what he was about to do hit him. This was more than just a promise.

This was history.

"I promise, Tommy. I will look after your family, for as long as I can." Tim heard the words, but he knew they were not his own. "I promise."

Tommy hugged him. "Thank you, Tim. Thank you." After a few moments, Tommy released him, stepped back, and smiled, his eyes wet. He nodded briefly, turned, and headed back to his duty post.

Tim slid down the wall and sat on one of the ubiquitous sandbags. He let his head fall to his hands, hoping that he'd really done the right thing.

XXX

Tony awoke with a start, wondering where he was for a brief moment when the memories of the past few hours hit him and he sat up, immediately turning to check on Tim. He noticed right away that something was different: Tim was no longer sweating.

He jumped to his feet and placed two fingers against Tim's neck, checking for a pulse. The strong, steady beat beneath his fingertips sent a surge of relief through his body and he grabbed the digital thermometer, quickly checking Tim's temperature. When it beeped he checked the reading and grinned: 99.3.

"Attaboy, Tim. Knew you could do it." He reached down and patted Tim's cheek, no longer hot to the touch. "Come on, wake up, let me see those baby greens." Tony's grin faded when Tim failed to respond. "Damn it. What's going on with you?" He heard the Autopsy doors slide open and turned to see Ducky and Abby enter the room.

"What happened?"

"His fever broke, but he still won't wake up."

Ducky started checking him over, listened to his heart and lungs, and checked his temperature again.

"His lungs are sounding a bit better, and his heartbeat is normal. I'm afraid we might have to wait for more thorough neurological tests…but in the meantime, we need to get him cleaned up and into warmer clothing before he becomes too chilled. Abigail, would you assist me?" Abby nodded and hurried off to fetch supplies. "Thank you for watching over him, Anthony."

"Doesn't seem to have done any good…"

"He's better, I promise. He'll get through this. Once we're able to run better diagnostic tests…"

"What about the storm?"

"It appears to be dying down, but I imagine it will be several hours before we'll be able to get anyone in or out." Abby returned with towels and a bucket of soapy water. "Now, if we could have some privacy…"

"OK, Ducky. Let me know when you're done. I need to talk to him…when he does finally wake up."

"Of course."

Tony turned and left, still worried for his friend, but finally allowing himself some glimmer of hope that Tim was actually on his way to recovery.


	7. Chapter 7

A storm broke just as dusk settled over the land, the crashes of thunder and flashes of lightning disguising the sounds of the enemy's attack. Shells fell and bullets flew among the sheets of rain that poured down from above, soaking the men in the trenches and turning No Man's Land into a quagmire.

Tim kept Tommy close by, trying to make sure that he, overcome with the certainty of his own demise, didn't do anything reckless. That promise weighed heavily on Tim's mind and he hoped he wouldn't have to fulfill it any time soon, but in his heart he knew a reprieve was unlikely. As he waited, crouched up against a slick wall of mud, the smells and sounds from his first dream returned to him, and he knew he had been building up to this moment. What lay beyond, he wasn't sure, and that uncertainty filled him with more fear than he had felt since he first found himself in this dream world.

The storm, and the attack, raged through the night. As dawn neared, the shelling ceased and the silence that ensued was only broken by the cries of agony from those wounded in the attack. Tim, much to his surprise, had only sustained a couple of shrapnel wounds, while Tommy, amazingly enough, had made it through without a scratch.

"We made it. I…I can't believe it." Tommy grinned and patted Tim on the back. "Looks like you need a bit of cleaning up, though."

"It's not too bad."

"Yeah, but it can get worse fast. Come on, let's get you to…" Tim looked up at his friend, just in time to see a dark hole appear in his forehead which was followed by the distant crack of a sniper rifle.

"NO!"

Time seemed to stand still as Tommy slowly sank to his knees and then fell, face first, into the mud. Tim scrambled towards him, not noticing that he was moving past a blank space in the wall, and area where the parapet had been washed away by the rain. Before he could reach his goal he felt something hit him, high in the shoulder, and his body exploded in pain. He fell in the mud, just inches from the body of his friend, unable to move or reach out to him.

"I'm sorry…"

Images started to flash past his vision: lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by the fellow wounded; Lt. Richardson, standing sorrowfully next to his bed, a familiar small wooden box in his extended hand; standing on a platform, his arm in a sling; a beautiful, blonde haired and green-eyed woman, her arms crossed over her rounded belly, sobbing at the words no wife or soon-to-be mother wanted to hear; standing in a field, rows of white crosses stark against the landscape, a small, blond-haired boy with sparkling blue eyes gazing up at him as he stood in front of one of the crosses, tears running down his face; sitting in a rocking chair, a different child, a girl, sitting on his lap and listening to his stories.

Suddenly he found himself standing in a dark room of a long abandoned house. A man Tim recognized waited, his nervousness apparent in every gesture. Soon another man entered the room, his face cast in shadow. The first man started to speak.

" _Hey, look, I thought about it and I decided I don't want to make the deal. Let's just leave it at that…Wait…no, don't!"_

The sounds of shots shattered the night, and the dim light faded. Tim sensed a presence and turned to see a man in a familiar uniform. When he spoke, it was a voice he had heard many times before, but he had never seen the face that went with the voice. Until now.

"Do you understand?"

Slowly, Tim nodded. "Yes. I understand."

The man smiled. "It's up to you, now."

"I'll do what I can…and I'm so sorry.

"Thank you." The man and the rest of the room faded from view. Tim stood in the darkness for a few moments, contemplating all he had seen and done. Then, he steeled himself and moved out of the darkness... and towards the light.

XXX

A soft moan yanked Tony from his restless sleep and he sat up, immediately turning to check on the occupant of the gurney next to him.

"McGee? Tim?"

Tim's eyelids slowly fluttered open and after a moment his gaze focused on the worried face above him.

"Tony?" His voice was soft and weak, but it was music to Tony's ears.

"Hey man, welcome back." Tony gave him a mock frown. "It's not nice to scare your partner like that."

Tim's gaze wandered and his eyebrows creased in puzzlement. "Why…am I in Autopsy?"

"You had a really bad fever. This was the best place to cool you down." Tony ruffled Tim's hair. "You're better now."

Suddenly a flash of fear crossed Tim's face. "How long…have I been here?"

Tony checked his watch. "About twelve hours, now." Relief crossed Tim's face. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm OK." Suddenly his eyes widened. "I need to get back to work." He tried to sit up but Tony gently pushed him back down on the gurney.

"Whoa. You're not going anywhere."

"The case…"

"It on hold until the storm's over and we can get out."

"Storm?"

"Man, you really are out of it. The big snowstorm… 'Storm of the century'. Ringing any bells?"

"Oh. Yeah, kinda."

"Good. Anyway, we're snowed it. No one in, no one out, which is why you're here and not in the hospital."

"I don't need a hospital…you said I'm better."

"Well, considering the fact that you had a fever high enough to fry your brain, with possible pneumonia, and you were basically in a coma, and we still haven't figured out why, I'd have to disagree with you there, buddy."

Tim stared at him for a moment before letting out a soft chuckle. "Good to have you back, Tony."

"Likewise."

"The case?"

"Oh, right. Got a suspect, just waiting for it to be possible to go pick him up."

"Sebastian Grail."

"Yeah. You remember finding him in Edwards' computer files?" Tim nodded. "Yeah, well, we have a pretty good link between him, the victim, and the scene."

"What else?"

"Well, other than the basics, it looks like he's a pompous jackass."

"Must run in the family."

"What?"

"Nothing. When are you bringing him in?"

"After the storm stops and they dig us out. Trust me, Tim, we have enough."

"I want to be there. When you interrogate him."

"Tim, you're not going anywhere except a hospital."

"I'm fine."

"We'll let the doctors, at the hospital, decide that. No arguments, Tim."

Finally Tim relaxed back on the gurney. "Fine. But as soon as they clear me…"

"Why do you want to be in on the interrogation so bad?"

"I made a promise."

"What?"

"Never mind. Look, let's just say I have intel on Grail that we need to use when we confront him."

"OK, fine.  _If_  you're cleared, and  _if_  Gibbs agrees…"

"I'll be there. End of story."

"Oh, no. Something tells me this story's just getting started."

Tim chuckled softly. "You have no idea…"

It was almost noon before the storm cleared and the snowplows had made a dent in the accumulation (official total: 29 inches in less than 24 hours), allowing the MCRT to leave the Yard and to transport Tim to the hospital. After a thorough exam and full blood work-up, the doctors determined that while he was still rather dehydrated, the congestion in his chest was almost gone and he was showing no other signs of illness. Gibbs ordered him home to rest—which wound up meaning back to NCIS, since he wasn't yet able to get to his apartment, and he managed a full night's sleep on Abby's futon before facing Grail in interrogation the next day.

Tim was amazed at how much Sebastian Grail resembled his ancestor, a fact he couldn't share with Gibbs as they both confronted the man in the interrogation room.

"Why am I here?" Grail snapped, before Gibbs had a chance to begin the preliminaries. "I have a business to run, and I don't appreciate being dragged into a second-rate federal agency for no reason whatsoever."

"We have a good reason: the murder of a U.S. Navy Petty Officer."

"Ridiculous!"

Gibbs placed the pictures of Edwards and the evidence on the table in front of Grail as Tim explained. "We have your print at the scene and we have communications between you and the victim. We have a bullet from the victim that matches your gun, and we have a uniform found at your residence that has the same type of rare fibers as those found at the scene. Doesn't sound so ridiculous to me."

"What we don't know is why."

"It's not about money. The uniform wouldn't fetch more than a few hundred dollars at any auction site."

"That's because no one recognizes its  _true_  value."

"So explain it to me," Gibbs pressed, while Tim sat back and listened, an odd expression on his face.

"It's what it represents: sacrifice."

"What do you mean?"

"That uniform was worn by a man in the British Military, before the age of conscription. That man  _volunteered_  to be a part of the Great War, something that should reach down through the generations, not be pawned off for a few dollars. Anyone who would sell such an item insults the memory of the man that wore it, and all who made the ultimate sacrifice during that conflict."

"So, you decided to kill Petty Officer Edwards because he was  _selling_  a uniform?"

"It was justified. He didn't deserve to own such a relic."

"Did he deserve to  _die_  for it?" Grail said nothing. "What makes you the...protector of these artifacts?"

Grail seemed to puff up a little. "My great-grandfather was a member of the military police, highly decorated and well respected. He was injured in the line of duty, otherwise he would have maintained that position until the end of the war. I protect his memory, and the memories of all those who fought with him."

"Let me tell you something about your great-grandfather," Tim said, his tone surprising Gibbs. "He used his position to harass and intimidate good, honest men who wanted nothing more than to win the war and return to their families. He tried to use his post to start a witch-hunt for so-called 'cowards', and wound up getting shot off his horse because he was too arrogant to dismount while approaching the front, making him an easy target for the sniper that cut him down."

"That's not true!"

"It is. Look it up." He tapped the picture of the uniform. "And let me tell you something about the man who wore  _this_. He, along with thousands of others, spent weeks in rat and lice-infested hell-holes, fighting a war he never wanted and didn't completely understand, but he fought because he believed he was protecting his country from a horrible enemy and that was more important than his own comfort or safety. He watched dozens of men be killed by bombs and bullets, including his best friend. He made a promise to protect that friend's family, and you killed one of the last members of it. I seriously doubt he'd want you as the protector of his 'honor'." Finally he tapped the photo of Edwards. "This man was a member of the U.S. Navy. He had a wife, a child on the way, and a bright future ahead of him, which you stole from him, his family, and the United States Navy. Yes, he wanted to sell the uniform, because he needed money, because he wanted to have something set aside to help his family if he was killed in the line of duty. He didn't do it out of disrespect, or dishonor, he did it because he wanted to help those closest to him, and most important to him. And last, but not least…" Tim leaned in and looked Grail straight in the eye. " _He changed his mind_. He decided that yes, maybe he should preserve this heirloom within the family a little bit longer, that yes, he could find another way to make the money but you didn't want to hear that. You killed him anyway, didn't you?"

"He intended to do it once, what's to say he wouldn't go through with it the next time? He was a disgrace to the uniform, his and mine!"

"You don't have a uniform. But you'll have one waiting for you—in prison." Tim rose from his seat and walked out, leaving a rather stunned group of people behind.

Fifteen minutes later, Gibbs found him sitting in Abby's lab, staring silently at the evidence they had retrieved from Grail's house.

"Feel better?"

Tim blushed slightly. "Sorry, Boss. I got a little too…overwrought in there."

Gibbs chuckled. "This time, overwrought worked. He confessed. It's over."

Tim shook his head. "Not yet. There's still one more thing I have to do."


	8. Chapter 8

Melinda Edwards looked distinctly nervous as Tim led her to the conference room. Officially she was there to sign the paperwork for the release of her husband's body, but there was another reason Tim had asked her to come to the Navy Yard.

"Is everything OK?" she asked, her hands resting protectively on her stomach. "Agent Gibbs said you caught the…man who killed my husband."

"We did. He confessed, so there won't be a trial. You won't have to deal with him, I promise."

"Oh. Good." She glanced around the room. "Then why am I here? I was told I'd have to go down to Autopsy to sign the paperwork, and—"

"You will. But there's something I need to tell you first."

"What is it?"

Tim carefully set the small wooden box on the table. "This belonged to your husband's great-great grandfather. It was recovered as evidence, but not that the case is over, it can be returned to you."

"OK. Why couldn't you just return it with the rest?"

"Because there's a story behind this. A family story, passed down through generations, and since…your husband won't be able to pass it down to the next generation, that responsibility falls to you."

"I…I don't know the story, sorry."

"That's OK. I do, and you don't mind, I can tell it to you now. OK?"

She nodded, and so he did.

When he finished Mrs. Edwards had tears in her eyes, but she was smiling.

"Thank you. That's...that makes me feel like I can give my son that family connection that Marc always talked about, but I never really understood. Is it true? All of it?"

"Every word."

She nodded as she picked up the box and carefully carried it with her as Tim escorted her down to Autopsy, and then back to the front gate. As she was leaving, she gave him a little wave and Tim thought he saw, just for a moment, two familiar figures, both wearing matching uniforms and Brodie hats, standing behind her. He smiled and nodded as the figures vanished.

Tim returned to his desk and settled in to work, glad that it was finally over.

But it wasn't.

The nightmares returned, night after night. Sometimes they were only brief memories, but others were intense, full stereo and high-definition versions of what he had seen ( _dreamed_ , he often told himself,  _just dreamed_ ) on the night of the big storm.

His team noticed he wasn't quite himself. Gibbs, Tony, and Abby all tried to get him to talk, but he avoided their questions. He was pretty sure no one would believe him, or worse, think something had been damaged by the fever and he was no longer fit to be a field agent.

Finally, lack of sleep and the overt worry of his teammates were too much and he sought out the one person who was required to maintain confidentiality. He waited until Ducky was alone before entering Autopsy for what had to be a very private conversation.

Ducky didn't look all that surprised to see him when he walked through the doors late one evening.

"Something on your mind, Timothy?"

"Quite a bit, actually."

"I see. And I take it this will fall under doctor-client privilege?" Tim nodded. "Very well. What it is you need to talk about?"

So Tim told him everything. Ducky listened, rarely interrupting, and when Tim finished he felt a little better, but was still worried at what his reaction might be.

"So you see, Ducky, I know it was a dream. It had to be, but…it was just so real, and the nightmares… Help me understand, please."

Ducky thought for a moment and a slow smile spread across his face.

"There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Timothy, than are dreamt of in  _our_  philosophies."

"What?"

"What I mean, lad, is that sometimes things occur which defy explanation, particularly if we limit ourselves to the mundane. What do  _you_  think happened?"

"I…I'm a scientist. I'm not supposed to believe…"

"Anything that lies outside your own observations, and that's all well and good, but what do you  _ **feel**_ happened?"

"I think…I think I somehow was seeing…someone else's memories and experiences…but I still don't know how."

"Nor do I, but it is quite clear that something unusual happened. You were not a scholar of the Great War prior to this, were you?"

"No, not at all. I mean, I read a few books in school, of course, but…that level of detail? No. I don't see how I could have imagined that on my own."

"Well, then, you have your answer."

"I'm still not sure I can accept it, but…"

"Lacking another option, I'd say this is the best explanation any of us can offer."

"Great. The problem is… What do I do about it? I mean, the nightmares…they can be really bad."

"You've faced nightmares before, correct?" Tim nodded. "What did you do to the disperse them? What was required?"

"Time, mostly. And trying to find another outlet for talking about them."

"Then I suggest you employ those methods once again. It certainly couldn't hurt. If that fails, I'd be happy to help you talk through these things. I have seen warfare, so I have some experience with this sort of thing."

"OK. I can try that. Thanks, Ducky."

"Anytime, lad. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Ducky."

Tim drove home, going over what Ducky had told him, and what he had said in return.

_Find another outlet for talking about them…I think I can do that._

After making it home and having a quick dinner, he got ready for bed but instead of turning in for the night, he sat down at his typewriter, studying the keys, and thinking about what he wanted to do. Finally he rolled a piece of paper into the carriage, centered it, and started to type.

" _As Tommy Harrison huddled in the muddy trench, water seeping into his hob-nailed boots, and listened to the explosions of the German artillery shells and the screams of men torn apart by snipers' bullets, one thought in particular passed through his mind:_ _ **General Sherman was right. War is Hell**_ _."_

THE END


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